


Grief is Great

by LostUnderTheSurface



Category: Final Fantasy XV, Kingsglaive Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Chronicles of Narnia References, Gen, Headcanon, Prophecy, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostUnderTheSurface/pseuds/LostUnderTheSurface
Summary: Only you and I know that yet.





	1. The King and the Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from C.S. Lewis' "The Magician's Nephew".
> 
> Unedited. Feel free to point out mistakes in grammar, spelling, ect.

In the beginning, Regis goes to Bahamut.

 

His queen has been buried the week before, and all Insomnia is in mourning. No traces of gold filigree or decorative ribbons remain on their austere uniforms. All the guards cover their faces when the newly-bereaved King approaches. It is a sign of grief for the monarch who has passed, and also one of respect for the monarch who moves forward.

 

Regis barely notices. The weight of the Ring seems greater with Aulea's passing, and the constant pressure to give and give until he is drained tugs at him, even in sleep. The only place he can find a moment's respite is in the chamber that holds the Crystal.

 

He stands before it, a grieving King with hollow eyes, and presses his palms to the rough surface. Amethyst-hued facets scatter light across his somber clothes and catch at the glint of steel in his eyes. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the immersion, and pushes his spirit into the crystal.

 

Instantly the pressure of the Ring vanishes. He is weightless, lost in a deep void of shimmering waves and shifting currents. The Ring gulps greedily at the Astral power presented to it, content to feed without the medium of a royal's body, and Regis relaxes for the first time since his wife took ill.

 

“ _King of Lucis.”_

 

He twists in search of the voice. It reverberates all around him, shattering the waves into a thousand dancing sparks. The sparks reform in the shape of a giant man. Wings made of swords flare about its body, flashing edges sharp as razors. The face is hidden behind an intricately-carved helmet of gold and ebony, but within the recesses, twin glints scrutinize the fragile human before them.

 

“Bahamut,” Regis breathes.

 

“ _King of Lucis,”_ the Draconian rumbles. _“I have awaited your arrival.”_

 

Regis' heart skips, and he cannot say if it is fear or excitement.

 

“ _The time has come to choose the King of Light.”_

 

If he were given to bouts of boisterous exclamation, as Clarus was in their youth, he would have raised his hands in joy and shouted at the news. But he is not young anymore, and he is not his Shield. A king shows dignity and composure even in times of great emotion; he inclines his head out of respect, but makes no other movement.

 

Bahamut pauses, as a normal human would before delivering important news. _“It will be the young Prince Noctis, your son.”_

 

Regis stops living for a moment. Every ounce of his body seizes in a horrible, choking gasp that seems to swallow all the life from his limbs before exploding from his mouth. “No! It cannot be!”

 

He knows the duty of the Chosen King: to cleanse their Star of the Scourge that plagues it. And as with all duties, there is a price.

 

In this case, the life of the Chosen King. _His son._

 

Bahamut is impassive to his human rage. _“It has been decided,”_ he states. _“The power of the Lucii grows within the Ring, and when your life has ended, it will be great enough to destroy the Scourge and redeem our poisoned Star.”_

 

“Then let it be me!” Regis begs. “Choose me and I will fulfill the Chosen King's calling.”

 

Bahamut falls silent, and the air grows dark around them. A chill wind, like that of Death, prickles the skin of the King.

 

“ _You will not be strong enough,”_ Bahamut says at last. _“Mistakes were made once. A blighted vessel was chosen.”_ His voice hardens. _“We will not make that mistake again.”_

 

Regis thinks of his son, five years old and already so intelligent, so adventurous. So _alive._ He thinks of Noctis lying cold as stone in one of those ancient tombs, surrounded by weeping women. He thinks of life without Noctis, growing ever older on his throne as the world moves on bereft of his son.

 

He cannot imagine a world where Noctis is dead.

 

“ _There is another option,”_ Bahamut murmurs. He sounds reluctant, if a god can be reluctant. _“If you desire to keep Noctis with you against all argument, we will wait another lifetime. We will give you your son, in exchange for his.”_

 

Of course, Regis thinks bitterly, the gods would consider a human lifetime to be of no great consequence. Another thirty years of slaughter, another thirty years of Niflheim encroaching on every known corner of the globe, another thirty years of Scourge and daemons and shattered dreams.

 

Another thirty years with Noctis.

 

He catches his breath at the thought.

 

His son...

 

He would see Noctis become a man. He would know the members of Noctis' Crownsguard, be privy to aspects of his son's life that even now were slipping from him, stand at his side as Noctis departed to gather his Armiger, and someday, perhaps, officiate his wedding.

 

He might even see grandchildren.

 

The thought stops him cold. Because Noctis' son would be the Chosen King, and Noctis would have to bear the weight of the Ring for a decade or two before his son is old enough to fulfill the prophecy. Noctis would have to watch his son depart on a long journey, never to return. Noctis would experience the heart-wrenching agony of losing the one thing he valued above all else: his family.

 

Noctis would be left alone, even as Regis will be.

 

Regis does not think himself a cruel man. He is a king, yes, and kings must...protect...their kingdoms. His hands are as stained as any other soldier's. But the mere thought of forcing his own burdens on Noctis' shoulders makes his blood freeze within his veins.

 

He could  _never_ do that to his son.

 

“No,” he gasps. “I do not accept that. I cannot.” Guilt twists in his veins, icy shreds of regret that he is not strong enough to be Chosen, to protect his son. With it comes anger, that the gods would force this choice upon him.

 

“ _Then it will be Noctis,”_ Bahamut decrees. _“The will of the Astrals has spoken.”_

 

“And me?” Regis asks, voice hoarse. “How long will I have with him?”

 

“ _Fifteen years.”_

 

So short. So few years, so little time! It is not enough.

 

It is all he will have.

 

His breath hitches and tears sting his eyes. But he will not cry. Not before a pitiless god.

 

“ _I see,”_ Bahamut muses. _“You would sacrifice your son's life in order to spare him the pain of sacrificing his own. How noble of you.”_

 

Regis laughs bitingly. “You give me no choice, Draconian. If there were any other way, I would choose it without a second thought.”

 

“ _There is no other.”_ Bahamut's voice is flat. _“We do only that which is necessary for the survival of Eos. We take no joy in the death of your mortal kind.”_

 

Then he floats closer to Regis. Somehow the edges of his armor soften, and the glint of his eyes is more blue than grey.  _“Grief is great. Even we Astrals know it, though we may choose not to. We are not as distant as you may believe.”_

 

You seem to be rather distant for the past two thousand odd years, Regis thinks but does not say.

 

“ _The loss of one you love above all else is no stranger to me,”_ the Draconian murmurs. _“It is a grief that only you and I know yet, King of Lucis. You will feel it every day, every year that passes. It will consume you from the inside out if you allow it. And perhaps you should. But I chose you, Regis Lucis Caelum, as the father to the Chosen King. I tested you to be certain, but now I know you will do that which is necessary to protect your son, no matter the cost to your own well-being. You will make him strong enough to overcome this darkness. I leave him to you now, and when your time is gone, I will give him the power to end this Scourge once and for all.”_

 

Regis feels a rush of warmth all around him, like a thousand breaths bolstering him, carrying him forward. Darkness surrounds him, but it is a comforting darkness, like that of a dreamless sleep. He awakens facing the Crystal, hands still pressed to its glowing heat.

 

He is too disturbed and shaken by the event to say anything to anyone for a long time.

 

 


	2. The Gift of the God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He guides us to bliss, his gift everlasting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Final Fantasy 7: Crisis Core.

In the end, Bahamut comes to Regis.

 

The King lays broken and bleeding out on the floor of his own home, shards of lost magic crackling around him. Drautos has gone after the fleeing Princess and her Glaive, and there is, for the first time in hours, silence within the Citadel.

 

The thought of Noctis being safely outside the city is the only thing that keeps Regis' heart beating. He knows he should let go and drift into the safety of death's embrace, but his son—his son! He wants to remember Noctis as he last saw him, with those wide, innocent eyes, that confidence in his step, the tone of casual annoyance to mask the churning emotions underneath. He wants to believe that he will see his son on the other side, when all this is over.

 

His eyes slide shut of their own accord. It takes too much to hold them open any longer, and Regis has been tired for a long, long time.

 

The warm darkness is familiar. He is not afraid of it, but it is strange and disconcerting to feel his magic slipping from his body as his spirit ascends to the other side. He senses Bahamut's prescence first.

 

“ _I have come to take you home, King Regis Lucis Caelum,”_ the Draconian rumbles gently.

 

Regis reaches forward, still unable to see much of anything. It is all swirling lights and colors, more beautiful than he remembers. Slowly, he begins to discern figures moving about Bahamut. Other spirits, crystalline blue.

 

His ancestors.

 

“ _Your life is over,”_ Bahamut tells him. _“Here, in the beyond, we await the Chosen King.”_

 

“And then I will see Noctis?” Regis asks, certain of the opposite but hoping, still hoping.

 

Bahamut makes a low sound that would pass for a chuckle on a human.  _“Yes, King of Lucis. Then you will see your son again.”_

 

Regis nods, satisfied. Anything he has endured will be worth it when he sees Noctis again.

 

For now, he waits.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly headcanon inspired by the idea that the gods gave Regis a choice and that he choose as he thought best. It is a desperate decision fueled by fear and uncertainty, and I cannot necessarily condone Regis' choice or logic. However, I do not hold him entirely responsible, as the Astrals were the ones who forced his hand in the first place. They, in turn, had chosen such extreme measures because of Ardyn, who was himself little more than a pawn. I do not excuse any of the characters' behavior, but merely try to present them as I see them. Whether or not their choices are justified is up to your judgment.


End file.
